


dark comes the night

by lynxura



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Birthright Route, Blood, Gen, Heavily implied PTSD, M/M, Serious Injuries, aftermath of war, attempts at exploration of the aftereffects of the trio's life experiences, or is it ;) ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 04:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16361051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynxura/pseuds/lynxura
Summary: Nohr is different than Ylisse in all the wrong ways.  The sky is dark even during the day; shadows fall even where Laslow expects there to be light.Wars and the empty spaces that they leave behind.





	dark comes the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObscureReference](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/gifts).



> Title from the song [Staying by Koda](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PClJma9Q8U) which I think is a really good song for the trio.
> 
> This is heavily inspired by [ObscureReference's](https://someobscurereference.tumblr.com/) amazing fics and headcanons, who I've never spoken to off-anon, but who I'm gifting this fic to bc so many of my own headcanons and so much of my motivation for writing this fic came from reading her stuff.
> 
> A lot of the stuff in this fic is based specifically off [this](http://someobscurereference.tumblr.com/post/178664552035/i-know-youve-mentioned-it-before-but-sometimes-i) ask/response combination, and my own postulations kind of expanding on it. (I did cram a bunch of my own headcanons in here, for instance: my headcanon that Laslow actually didn't like Xander very much at the start of their relationship).
> 
> This fic does play kind of fast and loose with canon events because while I've been involved with the fandom for the past two years, I actually haven't played any of the proper games for quite a while. (The main stuff that I think diverges is the backstory with Xander's past retainers, since by the time I saw on the wiki that it was in fact mentioned in the Xander and Laslow supports, the scene was already written. The next is precisely how much Selena, Laslow, and Odin know about Anankos, Valla, and Corrin. They're smart, though, I'm pretty sure they could puzzle some stuff out if they didn't know it already.)
> 
> Sorry for any wonky grammar or writing, I've been working on this fic for so long that I'm incapable of processing any errors in it.

Once, during the first war, before they’d all traveled back, Laslow had almost died.

Not that that had been an uncommon thing for him and his friends at the time.  He could barely remember life _without_ the daily risk of dying.  Brushes with death weren’t uncommon, but this particular time had been a bit more than a brush.  More of an uncomfortably close encounter, really.  

Risen had been hard to kill by nature.  They were already dead, after all, so the only way to properly stop them was to damage them so badly that they couldn’t get back up at all.  Severing the legs and arms, incinerating them to a crisp, or crushing them practically to mulch—these were the surefire ways to keep a Risen from continuing its assault.

Laslow had known this, was practiced in fighting Risen, and he hadn’t made a mistake, hadn’t slipped up.  That’s the worst part about battle.  You can’t control everything, and you can’t predict anything.  No matter how hard you train, no matter how good you are—some things just come down to luck.

And Laslow’s luck that day had been very bad indeed.

Risen had been human once, but they weren’t technically human _anymore_.  They were animalistic, caring for nothing but the next body to drop, and they didn’t have the normal aversion that people do to certain actions or certain feelings like shame, disgust, or pain.  A Risen would gnaw its own leg off if that meant it could get to its target, and they _certainly_ weren’t afraid to bite.

It had happened in a matter of seconds, a matter of the moment between one strike and the next, the time between a felling blow and a finishing one.  But that had been more than enough time for the Risen to push itself up from the ground desperately, relentless in its assault despite the wound in its chest that severed its torso nearly in half.  Risen were wild, erratic, and in the moments before their destruction that unpredictability increased tenfold, so Laslow had no time to react before it dug its jagged, broken teeth into the meat of his thigh.

The pain had pierced through the battle haze like a stone shattering a window, but Laslow hadn’t screamed.  He hadn’t even tried to pull away, aware on some level that that would only make the injury worse.  Once a Risen locked onto something, nothing short of dismemberment could loosen its hold, so he pushed the instinct down, suppressed it deep enough to keep fighting.

Laslow’s blade slid home only a second later, slicing through the base of the skull and emerging out the other side in one smooth movement, the point burying itself deep into the dark soil below.

They stayed there for what felt like an eternity, a moment frozen in time.  Laslow, kneeling on the ground, his hands tight around the hilt of his sword. The Risen, it’s teeth still buried in Laslow’s thigh, had been shoved down by none other than Laslow’s own weight, leaving an open wound in the shape of a jagged vertical line.  It twitched where it was pierced through by his blade, an insect pinned to a board.  Blood dripped down the length of steel, so dark that it looked almost black.

Laslow adjusted his grip on his sword, and time started moving again.  He twisted it, pulling it out and to the side, through bone and tendon.  The movement neatly severed the Risen’s jaw on one side, the only noise an unpleasant _crunching_ noise as Laslow’s blade passed a particularly resistant piece of bone.  The Risen fell to the ground, smoking.  Laslow watched it for a moment, but—thank Naga—it did not rise again.

Laslow breathed, except it was more like a gasp—a deep and shuddering thing that didn’t seem to bring any air into his lungs at all.  He tried to rise, but his feet slipped in something slick, sliding out from under him.  He fell, first to his hands and knees, then onto his side as the energy seeped from his body like sand from a broken hourglass.

He needed to look at the injury. 

Laslow rolled onto his back, glancing down at the wound as he did.  The gash was ugly and large, stretching from the top of his thigh down to the knee.  Even worse, it was deep—terrifyingly so, exposing muscle and, where the Risen had originally dug its teeth in, bone.

 _It’s bad_ , Laslow realized, forcing himself to look away.  If the femoral artery had been severed then he had less than a minute, and even if it hadn’t been...with as faint as Laslow already feels, he has anywhere from two to ten minutes, certainly no longer.  He wasn’t in pain anymore—hadn’t been since that initial moment of agony.  _At least it won’t hurt,_ he’d thought to himself with some sort of grim humor.  He’d never been any good at dealing with pain.

He was afraid, as much as the bone-deep exhaustion of blood loss would allow.

He doesn’t die there, of course.  One of his friends finds him.  Brady, perhaps, or someone with magic, someone who could have cauterized the wound until help _did_ show up.  Laslow doesn’t know—he hadn’t remembered then, and he hasn’t since.

He just remembers lying flat on his back, chaos and battle still raging around him as he bleeds to death, a pool growing under his legs and back, quick and certain and inevitable. 

The sky above him is orange and red, beautiful and angry alike, and so, so full of promise.  Laslow watches it, unable to look anywhere else, and waits to die.

 

 

Nohr is different than Ylisse in all the wrong ways.  The sky is dark even during the day; shadows fall even where Laslow expects there to be light.

Chrom—Ylisse’s king, Laslow’s king, even now, even a world away, always—had been kind.  He’d been family to Laslow, to all the children of his fellow Shepards, despite the lack of actual blood relation.  He’d never demanded that anyone call him by his title— had preferred it, actually, for people to use his name.  He’d rather die himself than watch any of his subjects come to harm, much to Frederick’s chagrin. 

 _My responsibility is to protect the people, not lord over them,_ he’d always say, and it makes Laslow sick, to look at Garon and see the difference.  Garon is obsessed with his crown, his title.  He is impetuous and cruel and discards lives like they mean nothing to him at all, and Laslow cannot so much as look at the man without thinking _false, false, false._

A false king, sitting on a throne he doesn’t deserve—a mere shade compared to Chrom or Emmeryn, dignified and kind.  A coward compared to the khans of Regina Ferox, noble leaders and honorable in combat—the first to step onto the battlefield and the last to leave.  It fills Laslow with something dark and angry.  Something that he hadn’t known existed inside himself, but that he probably should have expected.  After all, Laslow has two wars worth of rage stewing beneath his skin.  He has fought desperately, has killed for years, and has known war for even longer; for practically his whole life.  Righteous war, against something dark and evil and aching, and even so Laslow questions if it was worth it.  If anything could be worth the way the bodies had piled up, the way that Laslow had watched the people around him fall one by one, and just had to— just had to _live_ with it, keep going and act normal and not fall apart, like the jaws of war hadn’t dug into his life and rent it to pieces with ease.

And here Garon is, practically itching to begin one, and for what?

A portion of land? Some resources?  From a country that has never provoked Nohr?  A country that Garon could pacify if he would just return the stolen child and cease his incursions on Hoshido’s territory?  But Garon, of course, does neither of those things—because in the end, his interest isn’t actually in helping Nohr or it’s people.  It’s in helping himself.

That fact is enough—to borrow a phrase from when _Odin_ was still _Owain_ —to make his sword hand twitch.

And if it bothers him, Laslow can only imagine what it’s doing to Odin—Odin, who is one of the exalted line himself, who has been _taught_ , Laslow knows, what it means to be royalty in Ylisse—and Selena, whose temper has always ignited far more quickly and burned much hotter than Laslow’s own.  Laslow just has this empty space in his chest and a desperate need to fill it with something. 

So Laslow hates Garon, hates him in a way that he thinks he’s never hated anything before.  Even Grima, in their long-destroyed future, had carried hints of Robin in their demeanor—a smile that so closely resembled Robin’s when they’d pulled through with a particularly clever victory, a habit of touching their face while in thought—little things that had tinged Laslow’s hatred with sadness and longing.

Garon has no such redeeming features, at least as far as Laslow can tell, so Laslow looks at Garon, and he _hates_.

 

His spar with Xander, not so long after he first arrives in Nohr, is enough to get his blood pumping.

“You fight strangely,” says Xander, which is code for, _your form is wrong,_ which is the only way that people from Nohr know to say: _your form is Ylissean_.

Well, alright.  Perhaps that’s not quite true.  Laslow’s form has never been pure Ylissean.  That’s always been Selena, as full of raw talent and deadly force as her mother.  And Odin, of course, fights like an Ylissean _royal_ —a style so distinctive and effective that he’s had to forego it entirely in favor of magic, lest he distinguish himself too clearly on accident.  Laslow has never been like them, though—never _mastered_ one type of fighting and then honed it to a fine point.  Feroxian and Ylissean blood alike flows through his veins, and he fights like it, a strange hybrid of styles that looks _off_ even to the untrained eye, though Laslow himself has found it to be rather effective.

Of course, the one thing that their fighting styles have in common is that none of them are…perfect.  There are bits and pieces missing, principles that they never had the chance to learn, so they all sacrifice the beauty and grace inherent in the _proper_ styles in favor efficiency, a type of fighting born of incomplete formal training and necessity.

“Your highness,” says Laslow, as he blocks an overhead swing from Xander.  The metal screeches as the blades slide along one another, not giving way until they lock at the hilt.  Laslow looks at Xander through the space above their crossed blades and smiles wickedly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Laslow’s muscles quake.  This isn’t a good position for him to be in.  Xander is larger than him, which means that he can beat Laslow in any contest of pure strength just by virtue of body weight.

If Xander were a Risen, Laslow would lash out with a kick.  Break the knee, and then follow with a swing of the blade to sever the limb, just for good measure.  Size difference aside, the fight would end quickly enough.

But Xander isn’t a Risen, which means that Laslow can neither legally nor morally get away with such a tactic, and that is…actually something of an issue.  It’s a deficiency in his own abilities that he’d never identified before, that he never would have even suspected—that he’s so used to killing everything he fights that needing to keep them alive puts him at a disadvantage.

Laslow grits his teeth and then pushes Xander’s blade off to the side.  He uses the opening not to attack but to step back, create distance.

He still loses, in the end—Xander is taller, bulkier, better-armored, and Laslow is not as good at pulling his punches as he had previously thought.  So when Xander knocks him prone and holds the point of his blade level with Laslow’s throat, the universal symbol for _you lose_ , Laslow is not particularly interested in pushing his luck.

“I yield,” Laslow agrees pleasantly, not so petty as to be rude over a lost sparring match.

“Well done,” says Garon, rising from his seat, and now, _now_ Laslow bristles.  “It has been such a long time since someone could challenge my son in such a way.  I daresay you’ve earned a promotion.”

Well, that’s not what Laslow had been expecting.  He almost speaks, but then thinks better of it, clamping his mouth shut with a click.  Any other king might take Laslow’s pointed silence as an insult, but Garon cares so little for what others have to say that he doesn’t seem to notice at all.

Luckily, it is Xander that says, questioningly, “Father?”

“My son,” Garon says, “you have been in the market for a new retainer as of late, have you not?”

Laslow watches Xander pause, his composure never faltering even as his natural deference towards his father wars with the indignance Laslow knows he must be feeling.

He has only been in Nohr for a month, but he knows that not a couple weeks before his arrival, one of Prince Xander’s retainers—a retainer who had purportedly been by his side for years, who was, if the rumors are to be believed, a dear friend to the Crown Prince—had died.

 _Be patient with his highness,_ one of the maids had advised Laslow, _he’s not normally in such a mood.  He’s in mourning, you see_.

Laslow hadn’t seen it then.  But now—watching the way that Xander’s throat works as if searching for words that won’t come—Laslow finally notices it.

Laslow has only been in Nohr for a month, and he has already watched Garon order defiant villages burned to the ground and people executed without trial.  Each time, he has watched Xander give in—usually without voicing any dissent at all.  And even when Xander does speak out, he never seems to _argue_ —always just shuts his mouth when it becomes apparent that Garon won’t change his mind.

But if Xander won’t say something for strangers, then maybe he’ll say something _now_.  Laslow doesn’t know much about the cultures and customs of Nohr, but he can tell from Xander’s body language alone that Garon’s suggestion comes like a slap to the face, and that it is very, very unwelcome.

 _So say it,_ Laslow thinks.  _Please_.  Please, even though becoming Xander’s retainer is part of his mission here, because Laslow needs this too; he needs something to hang onto, to convince him that he didn’t make the wrong choice by coming here and serving these people and watching Garon slaughter people from within and without his country indiscriminately.

“I—” Xander says, and his voice doesn’t crack, exactly, but it splinters.  It frays, a hairsbreadth away from breaking entirely.  It occurs to Laslow that he maybe ought to get up, but he doesn’t dare, too scared of disturbing the tense silence that has fallen between Xander and Garon.

Finally, Xander bows his head respectfully.  “I am, father,” he says, and just like that, all traces of doubt and discomfort are wiped from his face.  He turns to Laslow.  “You can begin tomorrow, provided you accept the post.”

Garon scoffs before Laslow can get a word in edgewise.  “Of course he accepts,” he says, an edge of mockery to his voice, like he can’t believe Xander even gave Laslow the option of declining. 

Laslow clambers to his feet, offers a bow just deep enough to be polite.

“I shall be there, your highness,” he says, smile not sitting quite as comfortably on his face as it normally does.

Xander doesn’t reply, and for all the that he is young and strong and handsome and Garon is…old and decrepit, for a moment, just a moment, Laslow sees the resemblance.  Disgust coils in his gut, and Laslow leaves as quickly as he can before someone sees it on his face.

Xander is not the same man as his father—not yet.  But in a way that’s almost worse.  Because then Laslow could just hate Xander the way that he hates Garon, easy as that.  But Xander’s first instincts seem to be fair and kind; it just gets lost in the blind devotion to his father, which sucks for Laslow because he finds himself in a state of alternating sympathy and irritation with the prince’s actions.

It’s just as infuriating as Garon’s cruelty, in its own sort of way.

 

 

Things get even more difficult once Laslow becomes Xander’s retainer, in more ways than one.  The first few weeks are _hellish._ Xander drives Laslow harder than any general he’s known.  He’s short-tempered and borderline impossible to read, and Laslow just accepts that his first impression was right, and that he’s going to spend his time in Nohr in a constant state of frustration with the Crown Prince.

Peri, Xander’s other retainer, always looks deeply uncomfortable when Xander talks to Laslow, and Laslow completely understands why.  The change in tone, at times, between when Xander stops speaking to Peri and starts speaking to Laslow is enough to catch Laslow off guard as well, and Peri, though she often carries her head in the clouds, clearly notices and has no idea know what to do about it.

But then, three weeks and four days into Laslow’s tenure as a retainer, the end of the day comes, and Xander doesn’t dismiss Laslow for the evening like usual.

“Actually, Laslow,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I would like to speak to you for a moment.”

Oh _shit_ , Laslow thinks, mentally poring over all his actions during the past week.  He can’t _think_ of anything he’s done that would particularly piss Xander off?  Certainly not anything out of the usual.

Peri glances between Xander and Laslow, biting her lip, but after a moment she obediently leaves the room.

“Ah,” says Laslow, hoping that his hands aren’t shaking.  “What can I do for you, your highness?”

Xander sighs heavily.  He takes a seat at his desk, turning back to his paperwork with a squint.  “I owe you something of an apology,” he says, and Laslow promptly chokes.

Xander straightens at the noise.  “Are you really that surprised?” he says, looking distinctly offended at the sound of Laslow’s strangled coughing.  “Do you really think—” he cuts himself off.  “Never mind.”

Laslow composes himself, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back, mainly to keep from fiddling with them.  “No, your highness,” he says, as earnestly as he can muster, though the words ring false even to his own ears, “I simply don’t know what you feel you need to apologize for you.  I assure you, you’ve done nothing to offend me.”

Xander scoffs, a wry, disbelieving smile gracing his face.  Laslow almost starts coughing all over again—is this the _first_ time he’s ever seen Xander smile?  Or maybe this is just the first time that Laslow has noticed it, _really_ noticed it.  Garon doesn’t smile—and when Xander doesn’t, Laslow can practically transpose the stone, statuesque lines of their faces onto one another.  But like this—smiling, even if just for a moment—it softens up everything about Xander’s face.  It makes him look like a person, not some glowering statue of a furious warrior—of an angry king.

It makes him look kind.

“Perhaps,” Xander says.  “But my demeanor towards you has been unbefitting for a prince.”

Laslow hesitates.  “Your highness,” he says honestly.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Xander falls into a lingering silence, as if looking for the words he needs to explain himself.  “There is no official amount of time that needs to pass before appointing a new retainer after one has…fallen in battle,” he says at last.  “But traditionally, it can take years to find someone that you trust enough to fill the position.  So when I lost—” Xander’s voice does not hitch, but Laslow suspects that it is only because he cuts himself off before it can.  Xander swallows, and continues.  “I was not expecting the position to be filled so quickly, and I handled that turn of events poorly.  For that, I apologize.”

“Your highness,” says Laslow.  “It’s quite alright.  I understand.  I imagine that in your position, most people would feel the same.”

Xander blinks, as if surprised by the ease and the earnestness with which Laslow accepts the apology.  “Right,” he says.  “Well, thank you for your time, Laslow.”

It’s as good a dismissal as any, and Laslow _should_ really just leave the room without another word, but something—Laslow will never know what—possesses him to get one last word in as he turns on his heel to leave.  “By the way, your highness,” Laslow says.  “While I know that these are not the ideal circumstances in which you might have acquired a new retainer, I hope that at some point, I can prove to you that I am someone you can trust.”  It’s a pleasant enough sentiment, and entirely true.  Laslow may not be sure how he feels about Xander yet, but Laslow has no intention of stabbing Xander in the back or doing anything less than his best as a retainer.  Of course, it would not do for Xander to think that Laslow is being _too_ genuine, so he follows the statement with a wink and a coy smile.

It isn’t until Laslow is halfway down the hallway when he processes that, considering Xander’s usual temperament, he may have made a mistake.

“Ah,” he says to himself, a bit nervously.  “I’m a dead man.” 

Except that he isn’t.  Xander, in fact, doesn’t so much as bring it up.  But things get easier after that.

The man is still frustratingly strict when it comes to decorum and proper behavior, which is a radical and unwelcome change from Laslow’s former life—Chrom had never been one for formalities, and by the time Laslow had reached adolescence, Ylisse had practically been in ruins, it’s capital burned and most of its people slaughtered.  It’s hard to respect peoples’ social status when there’s hardly people left at all.

Xander _hates_ Laslow’s flirting, and in the beginning, doubling down on it is Laslow’s petty act of defiance—his way of trying to provoke Xander.  _Let_ the Crown Prince feel a fraction of the agitation that he stirs up in Laslow sometimes.

Except at some point, Xander’s annoyance fades in turn for exasperated amusement—only ever resurfacing if he’s having a particularly stressful day.  And as a result, Laslow’s own irritation with the punishments starts to fade too—the house arrests start feeling less like being in trouble and more like an opportunity to talk with Xander alone.  To get to know him.  At some point, _your highness_ becomes _my lord_ , and at some point, Laslow actually begins to savor the time he has alone with Xander.

Because in those quiet moments, he’ll watch Xander throw Elise up onto his shoulders playfully, or discreetly lean over to Leo to inform him that his coat is inside out, and suddenly Laslow can forget that he’s in a strange country, subject to the whims of a king who doesn’t know kindness. 

Of course, Xander still isn’t perfect.  It’s more frustrating, in ways, to know for sure now, that Xander is a good man, and to watch him stand by and do nothing as bad simply because he’s devoted to his father.  But still, it’s enough that most of the time, Laslow can pretend that this place—these people—is something that he’s willing to fight and die for.

 

 

Being royalty doesn’t mean anything, in the long run.  It can be easy to think that a crown and some fancy armor make you more invincible than the common man, but the truth is: weapons don’t care for your bloodline. They kill high and low born alike, and status means nothing when you’re bleeding to death in the dirt. 

Laslow, like Odin and Selena, knows this better than practically anyone else in Nohr.  They’ve seen it firsthand, after all.  They know from experience that royalty dies just like anyone else—without warning, and often with great violence.

 _I should be numb to this by now,_ Laslow thinks, pressing bloody hands to the wound in Xander’s side.  “Stay conscious, my lord,” he says, trying his best not to let his voice waver.  “This is no place for you to die.”

It’s no place for _anyone_ to die, but that’s no guarantee of anything. 

Xander is lying on his back, bleeding far too much, and Laslow feels like he is too—he feels the same way he did all those years ago, staring up at a vengeful sky for what he thought would be the last time.

Bandits—damned _bandits_.  And struck by an arrow, of all things.  If Xander had been wearing his armor, it would have just glinted off, but he hadn’t been.  Why hadn’t he been wearing his armor?

Laslow forces himself to push the thought aside.  There’s no point to it now.  It’s just the two of them, and that’s problematic.  Laslow needs to get Xander back to the castle as soon as possible—they’re nearby, only a ten minutes ride away.  They’d been on their way back—and _that’s_ the true irony of it.  The brigands they’d actually been out here to deal with with hadn’t landed so much as a scratch on them—but an ambush by bandits on the trip back does _this_. And now they’re stranded painfully close to the castle, but Laslow can’t do anything for fear of lifting  his hands from Xander’s side.  Every drop of blood matters, and Xander is already far too pale.

If only he were Odin, who’d learned some measure of the healing arts from his mother before she passed, or who could have simply seared the injury shut with his _new_ magic.  If only he were Selena, who is twice as fast on a horse as Laslow is.

Laslow sucks in a determined breath, unwilling to let himself shake.  He has been in this situation a thousand times before, and he knows it.  He looks down at Xander and for a second it’s not Xander he sees—it’s Odin, Selena, Lucina, Brady, Gerome, Morgan—

What would he have done, back then?  He’s no healer, he can only…

Laslow hesitates.  Anankos has shut off so many of their old abilities, anything that would seem too out of place in this world, so he hasn’t even bothered to try it.

But his mother had been a touch magic too—not in the way of healers, like Lissa, or in the way of battlemages, like Robin.  But there’d been a grace to her, a strength that was a little beyond what normal people carried, and she’d infused it into her dances, used it to give people the strength they needed to go beyond their limits.

Laslow had inherited a bit of that magic too, and though he knows it’s a long shot, he calls on it now.

For a long moment, nothing happens, and disappointment and panic begins to build in his chest once more.

And then his fingertips buzz with energy, strange and warm.  It’s exhilarating in a way that he’s only ever felt when he’s dancing.  It’s a soaring sensation, like he’s a bird in flight.  He can hear his own heart in his ears, loud and steady as a drumbeat.  The feeling builds and builds, until it reaches a crescendo—and then with a phantom breeze that rustles Laslow’s hair, it disappears entirely.

Beneath him, Xander’s eyes flutter, and then open fully.

“Laslow…” he says, voice bleary.

 “Be still, my lord,” Laslow says, voice filling with relief.  “You’re going to be alright.”

 

Laslow surges into the palace at a full gallop, the guards at the gate shouting in disapproval until they realize _why_ he’s not bothering to stop, at which point their voices become high with distress and worry. 

By the time he’s pulled his steed to a skidding stop as close to the palace infirmary as he could safely get, there are already guards rushing to help him get Xander off the horse.

They don’t let Laslow follow Xander into the infirmary, blocking him with a firm hand to the chest and then shutting the door in his face.

Laslow stands there and stares at the wood paneling until Selena comes along and drags him away, scoffing in the way she does when she’s trying to pretend that she doesn’t care.

She forces him into a room with a bath, peeling off his blood-slick shirt as she shoves him into a sitting position.

Selena isn’t the sort of person to ask questions like _are you alright_?  She doesn’t need to.  Not with Laslow, at least.  She, Laslow, and Odin have known each other for practically their whole lives, and as a result, the three of them have something of an intuition when it comes to one another.  And why would she ask a question that she already knows the answer to?

She doesn’t say, _I’m worried_ or _I love you_ , either, but Laslow feels it in the way she wets a washcloth and starts scrubbing his skin clean, the touch of her calloused hands almost impossibly gentle.

She lets her actions do the speaking for her, doesn’t even open her mouth until she’s almost entirely done ridding him of blood and grime.

“Odin’s out on a mission for Lord Leo right now.  He’s going to be so worried if he gets back and sees you like this,” she says, uncharacteristically soft as she brings the washcloth up to Laslow’s face.  She’s just going to rub at a final bit of blood that’s dried on his face, but Laslow tilts his head into the touch anyway.  She cups his face accommodatingly, tracing the line of his cheek bone with her thumb.  “Prince Xander will be alright.” 

“You think so?” Laslow says.  His voice is hoarser than he’d expected, and if it were anyone else he was speaking to he would feel humiliated at the unintentional sign of weakness.  But it’s not _anyone else_.  It’s Selena, and while neither she nor Odin were especially close to him growing up, they are still the two who know him better than he knows himself these days.  Likewise, to anyone else, the way that Selena is standing between his legs, hands on his face, would seem unspeakably intimate.  But Laslow hardly finds it sexual or awkward.  As it always is with Selena and Odin, the proximity is nothing but a comfort.

“Of course,” Selena’s voice has always been strong, low and harsh in a way that makes her snapped retorts hit harder than if they came from—say, Laslow.  But it also means that the sound of it is a bit like an anchor in a storm, something that Laslow can latch onto like a tether pulling a drowning man to shore.  The sound of her voice drags Laslow back to earth—makes him feel almost human again.

“Well,” says Laslow, straightening his back and flashing her his best attempt at a smile.  “Who am I to doubt such a pretty lady?”

Selena stares at him, jaw going slack for just a second before she flushes bright red.  She pulls her hand away and promptly smacks Laslow upside the head with the washcloth.

“You’re unbearable,” she says, but she’s laughing slightly too.  “Absolutely unbearable.”

 

By nightfall, Laslow is so anxious that he’s practically bouncing off the walls.  He still hasn’t heard any word on Xander’s condition, and Garon has summoned him, presumably in response to the incident, which is definitely _not_ great.

When he enters the throne room, Garon is pacing furiously, pausing only to watch Laslow drop into a shaky bow before he resumes his walking.

“Tell me, boy,” Garon says.  “What were you doing today?”

Laslow blinks.  Isn’t it obvious?  “I was assisting Lord Xander,” he says.

“ _Your majesty,”_ Garon snaps, and Laslow stops short.  Garon scoffs.  “You should address me as _your majesty_.”

Laslow grits his teeth.  “My apologies,” he says, forcing himself to swallow his pride along with the bit of bile that rises in his throat, “your _majesty_.”

“Good,” Garon says, and Laslow feels sick.  “Now, what were you assisting Xander _with_?”

Laslow blinks.  “Just a routine mission, I assume.  A village having some trouble with brigands—handled now, of course.”  Hastily tacked on: “Your majesty.”

Garon slams his fist into the arm of his throne, and Laslow jumps—surprised, not afraid. 

“A routine mission,” he practically snarls, and okay, _now_ Laslow is starting to get really nervous, glancing around the room and instinctively posturing himself to bolt at a moment’s notice.  “Without guards?  Without proper armor?  In the dead of night?  Do you expect me to believe—”

The door to the throne room swings open, slamming into the stone wall with a heavy thud, and standing in the doorway is Xander.  His white shirt not fully buttoned up, revealing just a hint of the bandages wrapped high around his chest.  It’s not a particularly messy look, but from Xander, who rarely has so much as a hair out of place, it’s absolutely shocking.

“Father,” Xander says, slightly out of breath as he drops into a courteous bow.  “Please, you misunderstand.”

If his injury is still paining him—which it _must_ be—Xander doesn’t show it.

Garon doesn’t look any kinder for his son’s presence.  “Then elucidate things for me, my son,” he says lowly.

“Of course,” Xander says respectfully.  He turns to Laslow, giving him a brief once over.  “Laslow, you’re dismissed.”

Laslow stays still, frozen in place as he stares at Xander.  He hadn’t known Xander was even conscious, but the healers must have done a decent enough job, if Xander managed to make it all the way here in what seems to be quite a rush.  The relief sets in all at once, and once it does it’s almost unwelcome, because without the worry to keep him distracted, Laslow is suddenly painfully aware of the way the collar of Xander’s shirt falls open to reveal the line of his collarbone.

“ _Laslow_ ,” says Xander, and his voice is tighter now.  “You are dismissed.”

The tone is a surprise, short and frustrated in a way that Laslow hasn’t heard from Xander in some time.  It stings more than he cares to admit.

Laslow almost wants to open his mouth and protest, but there’s something uncompromising about the expression on Xander’s face that suggests that he can argue as much as he wants and not achieve anything other than making Xander angry.

Still, when Laslow turns on his heel and leaves, he cannot, for the life of him, shake the feeling that he’s made a mistake.

 

Laslow stares blankly at the door to Xander’s room.  This is ridiculous.  He shouldn’t be bothering Xander.  The day has been so long.  Xander needs to rest, not field inquiries from a worried retainer.

But the knot in his chest hasn’t faded since leaving the throne room, and Laslow has a terrible suspicion that it won’t go away until he speaks to Xander himself.

So he steels himself and raises his hand, rapping on the oak door twice.  At first, there’s no response, and Laslow rocks back on his heels nervously.

“My lord?” he calls. 

Silence, and then: “Ah, Laslow.  Come in.”

Laslow enters, and for a second all the anxiety drains out of him.  The room is just as Laslow has always seen it, and Xander is sitting his desk, appearance once again immaculate.

And then Laslow sees the bruise blooming across Xander’s cheek.

He sucks in a shocked gasp between his teeth, which Xander doesn’t react to—probably deliberately, since there’s no way that Xander hadn’t heard his reaction.

“What did you want, Laslow?” he says, and now that Laslow has noticed one thing that’s off, he’s noticing a dozen more.  The way that the room is more dimly lit than it usually is, the strain in Xander’s voice, the way that his hand is white-knuckled around his pen.

Laslow wants to ask, but what’s the point?  He already knows, and Xander knows that he knows.  He wants to _say_ something then, but Laslow knows that even despite this recent development— _if it’s really recent,_ he thinks darkly—Xander isn’t likely to take well to Laslow speaking poorly of his father.

“My lord,” says Laslow, and then winces.  His voice sounds angrier than he would have liked.  Not anger at Xander, of course, though he isn’t sure that Xander would react preferably if he knew the true target of Laslow’s ire.  “I didn’t have a chance to ask you how you’re faring after this afternoon’s incident.  I hope that I do not overstep, but your earlier condition caused me great concern.  I wanted to…see for myself how you were doing.”

Xander’s face twitches.  It takes Laslow a moment to place the emotion.

Surprise.

“I’m quite alright, Laslow,” says Xander, rather gently.  “And yourself?”

Now it’s Laslow’s time to be surprised.  “Me?”

Xander arches a dignified eyebrow.  “I’m afraid that in all the chaos, I never had the chance to check if you were injured either.  It seems unlikely that you weren’t, considering how outnumbered we were, but I’ve been in the infirmary practically all day and you never stopped by.”

There’s an ache in Laslow’s ribs that he hadn’t noticed until a couple hours after he’d arrived back in the castle, and by the time that Selena had pointed out the mosaic of colorful bruises starting to bloom across his chest, dark and ugly, the entire infirmary was practically locked down, every available pair of hands tending to the Crown Prince.   Laslow hadn’t paid it any mind.  It isn’t like the injury is particularly serious.  Nothing is broken, and Laslow has dealt with similar injuries so many times in the past that taking the care to avoid making it worse is practically second instinct.

And while Laslow knows that for all Nohr’s struggles, it is hardly short on hand for healing supplies, it’s hard to shake the feeling that using valuable resources on an injury that doesn’t truly need it—even if it _does_ hurt something fierce—is just such a waste.

“My lord, I assure you that I’m just fine,” Laslow says, smiling.

Xander’s eyes narrow.  “You know, Laslow,” he says, voice losing some of its gentle tone, “you’re a much better liar than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

Laslow’s eyes go wide and he chokes.  “Lord Xander, I don’t—”

“You’re carrying yourself quite gingerly for someone who isn’t injured, Laslow,” Xander says.  Laslow winces. _Caught_.  Xander sighs heavily.  He sounds exhausted. “I don’t know why you’re putting it off, but put your pride aside and get that injury taken care of.”

“I could say the same to you,” Laslow mutters. 

He hadn’t meant for Xander to overhear, but judging by the way that one of Xander’s hands flexes around his quill and the other comes up to touch briefly at the darkening patch of skin on Xander’s cheek, Laslow may have spoken just a touch too loud.  Xander’s hand tightens further around the quill and then loosens as he clearly tries to force himself to relax.

Laslow’s starting to feel claustrophobic.  While he’s relieved to see that Xander isn’t secretly dying, everything else about this conversation has been nothing short of an absolute, unmitigated disaster.  “I’m sorry, my lord.  That was out of line.”  He bows, the motion stiff and awkward.  Xander is quiet, and no response seems to be forthcoming.  A silent dismissal?  Either way, Laslow decides to cut his losses, and turns to leave.

He’s halfway out the door before Xander’s voice stops him.

“Wait,” Xander says, and Laslow stops in place, hesitating before closing the door.  Whatever Xander is about to say, it won’t do to have eavesdroppers.

“Laslow,” Xander continues.  “What happened earlier this evening is nothing for you to concern yourself over.  I made a mistake, something I won’t be doing again.”

 _You’re not the one who did anything wrong!_   Laslow thinks hotly, anger causing him to curl his hands into fists by his side.  The worst part is, of course, that Laslow can’t say a thing about it.  Not without making Xander shut down this line of conversation entirely.

“My father and I had a—a _disagreement_ over how a situation should be handled,” Xander continues, “and in a moment of anger, I made the rash decision not just to disobey him but to try and handle the situation myself.”

“So I gathered.”

 Xander cringes slightly, guilt apparently chipping away at his usual composure.  “Admittedly, I thought you knew what we were doing.”

Laslow hadn’t.  Before Grima had been defeated, there were barely enough living people left to help Lucina at all, much less provide a full entourage of guards to follow and protect her.  So when Xander had summoned Laslow in the early hours of the morning and asked for his assistance—and his assistance alone—it hadn’t really registered as odd.  In retrospect, there had been some hints: the hour, Xander’s lack of armor, the urgency and anger behind the request.  But Laslow had simply assumed that the mission was time sensitive and left it at that.  Nothing else had so much as occurred to him.

“I had no idea,” Laslow says.

“I see that now,” Xander says, and his voice is genuinely apologetic.  “For what it’s worth, I always intended to take responsibility for the both of us.”

“My lord, I wasn’t finished,” Laslow says, cutting Xander off courageously.  “I had no idea that we were disobeying your father, but even if I had, I would have done the exact same thing.”

Xander blinks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.  “That’s kind of you to say,” he says, bewildered, “if a bit reckless.”

Laslow can’t keep the scoff from rising in his throat at that.  “I don’t serve your father, my lord.  I serve you.”

Xander doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with that revelation, and quite honestly?  Laslow doesn’t either.

 

 

War has been hanging on the horizon like an executioner’s axe, and Laslow feels like he is the one on the chopping block, savoring each moment for the blade falls and takes his head off. 

Corrin’s defection to Hoshido destroys the tenuous balance that was the peace between Nohr and Hoshido and sends that axe toppling down.  Laslow can’t even be angry at them for their decision, not when he feels the pull of Hoshido too—so much more similar to Ylisse than Nohr has ever been.

The day the war is formally declared, Laslow staggers through his duties like a zombie, not wanting to react too obviously.  He sees Selena and Odin doing much the same—knows that they must feel just as angry and horrified as he does.

When he staggers into his bedchambers that evening and the numb feeling doesn’t go away, he thinks: _huh, maybe I didn’t have to be so worried after all._

And then he promptly throws up.

“Ah,” he mutters to himself as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, “that’s more what I was expecting.”

Here’s the thing about war.

One war makes you numb.  It’s shaking hands and hysterical sobs and it’s _grief, terror, grief, terror, grief, terror_ and then at some point, eventually, it’s acceptance.  Not of the pain and suffering, because that never gets easier despite what some people may hope, but of the fact that you don’t need to be upset, because you probably won’t make it out anyways.

Two is easy, or at the very least, as easy as war can be.  They’re used to the conflict by now.  There’s nothing left to experience, no new trauma that can shock them.  It’s still ugly, still scary, but it’s nothing new.  They’ve survived it before, and they can survive it again.  Nothing can’t get worse than what they’ve already endured.

In contrast, three is absolutely unbearable.  It’s the sudden, horrifying realization that this is _never_ going to end.  That they can fight and fight and fight, but in the end, it won’t matter—there will always be another war, and that they were _wrong, wrong, wrong_. 

It can always get worse.

War after war after war, and somehow the three of them always ends up at the center of it.  War is so ugly, and Laslow has known it for practically his entire life, knows it a way that only a few other people can stake claim to.  And what does that say about him?  What does that make him?  When you kill and you fight and that’s all that you know and it’s all that you do and it’s probably all that you ever _will_ do until the day you finally break, are you even really a person?  Or are you just a weapon?

It’s not the fate that Laslow had envisioned for himself, but then again, most people never see the thing that destroys them coming—not until it’s already upon them.

But even harder is seeing the way that it changes the others.

Laslow’s heart aches in sympathy for Xander, who mourns Corrin’s absence as if they were dead, not defected.  Xander, who is a couple years his senior and who is kind and brave and dignified and who is truly and wholly unprepared for the horrors that await, even if he doesn’t show it—even if he’s not aware of it himself.  Laslow wants to help, but he doesn’t know how, especially now that Xander’s short temper and stormy moods have returned, the byproduct of grief and betrayal.

The worst night comes a couple months into the war, when Corrin is first spotted at the front.  Xander doesn’t face them himself, wasn’t even _there_ , but the news sends him into stony silence in a way that tells Laslow that Xander cares desperately and is trying to keep people from figuring it out.

Laslow thinks that—with none of Xander’s siblings in the room—he’s the only one who notices the way that Xander’s face goes still and controlled, who truly sees what it means when Xander stands up abruptly and dismisses everyone in the room, already striding off to his own chambers.

Everyone else seems to think that it’s anger at losing the first major battle of the war, but Laslow knows better.

When he knocks on Xander’s door, he’s sure that he’ll be ignored.  He resigns himself to it almost before the fact, so when Xander himself opens the door, it rather throws him for a loop.

“My lord,” Laslow says, tilting his head back to look Xander in the eye.  “Are you well?”

Wrong thing to say. Xander’s face closes off even further.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Despite his defensiveness, Xander steps back from the door and heads over to his desk.  Laslow enters, shutting the door behind himself cautiously.  “I know that the meeting must have been hard for you.”

Xander’s hands clench at his sides.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My lord,” Laslow tries again.  “It’s okay if hearing about Corrin—”

“I’m sorry?” Xander interrupts, voice harsh, and his back straightens as he draws himself up to his full height.  “Why should it make any difference?  They betrayed us—they might as well have—” he cuts himself off, breathing heavily.

“They’re family, Xander.  You’re allowed to care.”

“No!” Xander practically thunders, striking at his desk with surprising force.  The wood shudders, the sweep of his arm knocking most of the items off his desk.  Papers and books fall to the ground.  An inkwell strikes the wall, shattering and splattering ink across the walls and floor.

Xander heaves in a shuddering gasp, raising a hand to his head to grasp at his hair.

“It’s not—it’s not—” Xander says, and right now he’s so far from the image of immaculate prince that Laslow doesn’t even know what to do.  This is uncharted territory, and Laslow suddenly has no idea how to navigate.

Laslow picks up his mouth from where it had hit the floor in response to Xander’s outburst.  “It’s alright,” he manages, voice perhaps a little more doubtful than he’d like.

Xander shakes his head harshly.  “They betrayed us.  I don’t care about them.”

That sets something off in Laslow.  “You should!” he interrupts harshly, the anger coiling tight in his chest loosening his tongue.

“ _Why_?”

“Because if you didn’t then you would be just like your father!”

It’s a cruel thing to say, but it has the desired effect.  Xander drops his hand back down to his side, staring at Laslow with something like confusion written across his face. 

“Is that meant to be an insult?”  All the volume to his voice is gone, and his tone is uncertain, like he isn’t sure if he should be angry.  It’s a tone that tells Laslow that he needs to be very careful about what he says next.

Laslow shrugs gently, doing his best to make sure that the action doesn’t come across as too dismissive.  “That’s up to you, my lord,” he says, and then strides over to the mess without giving Xander a chance to respond.  “I’ll clean this up.”  He starts to kneel but before he can, Xander catches his shoulder.

“It’s fine, Laslow,” Xander says, and now the anger is almost entirely gone, overwhelmed by what seems to be a sudden, profound embarrassment.  “It’s my mess.  I’ll take care of it.”

“My lord—” Laslow says, but Xander waves his protest off.  “Fine, is there anything else I can do?”

Xander hesitates, his expression twitching slightly with something that Laslow might almost call nerves.

“Xander?” Laslow prompts, hoping that the use of the prince’s first name will snap him out of whatever reverie he’s stuck in.  It seems to work. Xander’s eyes widen slightly, and Laslow cringes, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

It never comes.

“Well,” Xander says instead.  “I suppose that I wouldn’t be opposed to some company.”

Laslow blinks, staggered by the magnitude of the question.  Laslow has never known Xander to be so vulnerable, to ever _ask_ for anything.

Xander’s expression starts to shutter again.  “My apologies, Laslow, that was inconsiderate, I know that you have other responsibilities—”

“No!” Laslow says, probably a bit too loud.  “No, my lord.  I’m sorry, I was just surprised.  It’s no trouble at all.”

Laslow flounders around for a little bit, not entirely sure what to do with his body with no _actual_ responsibility to complete.  He finally settles into a chair in the corner of the room, which must be the right move, because Xander doesn’t say anything when he sees him do it.  Laslow sinks deep into the cushions.  Large and plush as the chair is, there’s no denying that it was made for royalty. 

He watches Xander clean in silence for a little while, pulling his legs up into the chair and tucking them under him as he observes quietly. 

It’s actually a good thing, Laslow finds, that Xander asked him to stay.  There are words building on his tongue that he hadn’t even noticed in the moment, and that he’s only finding the courage to say now.

“My lord,” he says, and Xander glances up from where’s he’s carefully restacking some of his books.

“Yes?” _Surprised_.

“Corrin didn’t betray you.”

Xander’s eyes narrow, a hint of irritation starting to return before Laslow speaks next.

“Corrin betrayed your father.  It was _his_ orders that they disagreed with—that pushed them away.  Not anything that you did.  Not a lack of love for you or your siblings.”

Xander scoffs.  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“What I want has nothing to do with it.” Xander shakes his head, and Laslow sighs.  He won’t get any further with that line of argument.

So he changes tactics.

“Even if they have betrayed you,” he says, “you don’t need to hate them.”

Xander doesn’t reply, so Laslow keeps talking.

“When I was a child, there was someone who was—who was like family to me,” his voice cracks slightly, and that gets Xander to freeze, stopping to observe Laslow more closely.  “I wasn’t related to them by blood, but the way that we were raised, I might as well have been.  But something happened, and they—they turned against us.  It wasn’t their fault, not really.  But it was hard to remember that when I saw all the things that they’d done.  And I was so angry.  I wanted to hate them, but I _couldn’t_.  And my parents, my parents never really tried, even when that same friend destroyed our home and eventually took their lives.  I couldn’t hate them then either.  Never could.  Loved them even after everything.  I don’t know if I could have killed them, even given the option.”

It's a heavily abridged version of the truth, so much of it omitted or true only on a technicality that it feels foreign even to Laslow’s tongue—but it is still the truth.

Xander is quiet, and Laslow says, with a quiet sort of urgency: “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Xander says instead, a deep sympathy to his voice.

 _Sorry_ isn’t what Laslow wants or needs to hear.  But at least it’s something, and Laslow doesn’t dare push further right now.  He can only hope that Xander will think on his advice and come to some realizations on his own. 

With nothing else to say, silence rises up to fill the empty space in between them again.  Laslow curls up in the chair, still watching Xander clean.  Despite their fraught conversation, it’s actually rather peaceful, and before Laslow knows it, his eyes are slipping shut and he’s drifting off to sleep.

 

 

Laslow wakes with nothing more than a quiet gasp—a skill that he’d acquired through necessity, not one he was born with.  It takes him a moment to process his location, to realize that he’s in a bedroom, not the battlefield.  To remember that it’s been years since those nights in Ylisse when he could only risk going into the lightest rest, knowing that Risen could ambush their camp at any given moment.

“Laslow?” says a curious voice, and that’s—that’s Xander’s voice, quiet and confused.  That’s right, Laslow had been in Xander’s rooms, and he’d—he’d fallen asleep.  There’s a blanket on Laslow’s lap that hadn’t been there before, mussed by Laslow’s sudden awakening.

Laslow tries to not think about where it came from, but flushes with embarrassment despite himself.  At the very least, though, the humiliation gives him something else to focus on, and after a moment all the tension seeps from his body.  He slumps back into the seat, suddenly painfully aware that all his muscles had been coiled, ready to push him from the chair in the case of an enemy. 

“Are you alright?”  All of Xander’s earlier irritation and bad temper is gone from his voice, leaving only quiet concern, and Laslow turns even redder as he realizes that Xander surely must know exactly what had just happened.  Nightmares aren’t terribly hard to recognize, and Laslow has never been a still sleeper.

“I’m fine,” Laslow says honestly.  Nightmares aren’t a pleasant experience, but Laslow has had plenty of them, and it wasn’t like this one had been anything unusual.  It’s easy enough to compartmentalize, to push down the smell of rot and the sight of the bodies piled up until the only thing that remains is just the slightest taste of copper in his mouth, where he must have bitten the inside of his cheek as he dreamed.  Even the memory of it is already fading—the horrors and violence such a common feature that Laslow’s mind doesn’t bother to hold onto them for too long.

Xander has an expression on his face like he’s wants to protest, but then he shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the urge.  “You look upset.”

Laslow is vaguely aware that Xander must be right—that his grip must be too tight around the blankets pooling around his waist, his breathing just a bit too desperate and unsteady.

“Do I, my lord?” he says.

“You had a bad dream.”  A statement, not a question.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” Laslow says.  _Lie_.  “I don’t remember it in the least.”

 _Truth_.

 

 

The next time that Laslow rides into the grounds of Castle Krakenburg at breakneck speed, it’s thankfully not with a bloody Xander in his arms.  Though it is—in what Laslow desperately hopes is _not_ the start of a pattern—with someone else in need of healing.

It is winter in Nohr, and here the snowstorms rival those of Regna Ferox.  Unlike Ferox, though, where every single building is meant to withstand the country’s harsh weather, most of Nohr’s towns aren’t so well constructed.  Castle Krakenburg and Nohr’s other multitude of fortresses are fine, but surrounding villages, especially the poorer ones towards the periphery of the kingdom are all cheap wood and nails.  They have no way to trap or produce heat and are liable to collapse under even the slightest harsh wind. 

It’s normally not an issue, or so it’s been explained to Laslow.  When they see a storm brewing, a village will evacuate to the nearest fortress to wait it out.  And in the aftermath of a storm, if their village has truly been decimated, they may—provided they have not done Garon insult in some way or another—receive royal aid.

Xander had dispatched Laslow to help with just such an endeavor.  It’s not a normal task to ask of a retainer, but Laslow understands the message that he is trying to send.  In Ylisse, Chrom likely would have gone himself, but Laslow shakes that thought free from his head.  Because of Garon, that’s not even an option.  Laslow isn’t sure what Xander would choose if it were, but there’s no point in ruminating on a choice Xander never even got to make.  And anyways, it’s wartime.  Xander himself is caught up in strategy meanings and battle plans and exhausted to the bone—the fact that he’s sparing a retainer at all has already raised some eyebrows. 

The job itself is an easy one—much simpler than most of the tasks Xander sends him to complete, and certainly much safer than some of the jobs that Leo had had Odin doing in the first few months of their acquaintance. 

Getting the town back into some semblance of habitability is hard work, but luckily Laslow isn’t here alone.  With the villagers and some soldiers that have also been sent to assist, repairing the damage takes time, but is entirely doable.

Laslow’s orders were simple, and straightforward, and should have been relatively low stress.

Unfortunately, the fates have never seen fit to make Laslow’s life easy.  He may be in Nohr, and he may be Xander’s retainer, but he’d been foolish to assume that a different location and a different job would make him anything less of a Shepard. 

So when a man had come to Laslow and begged for aid—had explained that his daughter was _sick_ , very sick—Laslow hadn’t thought, even for a moment, about saying no.

The girl’s condition is serious: a break in her leg that had punctured skin and subsequently—inevitably—gotten infected.  And her parents, with no one nearby to turn to, had put off seeking treatment, hoping that the injury would heal on its own.

They’d only come to Laslow a couple hours ago, and by that time, their daughter had barely been breathing at all.  Laslow tries to tap into some of his magic, some of the power he’d used to help Xander, and he thinks that her temperature drops just a little bit, just a degree or two, but her body is baking with heat from her infection, and Laslow is no miracle worker.

It’s the middle of a snowstorm, but with the girl’s condition so grave he doesn’t dare delay.  In the beginning, the chill is sharp and unpleasant.  The wind feels like a blade cutting him to the bone, but Laslow shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the girl in front of him.  He’s uncomfortable right now, but he’s familiar enough with the cold to know that soon enough his body will adjust.  This is not the worst weather he’s had to survive.  The kid, on the other hand, doesn’t need hypothermia on top of her infection.

“Hey,” he says, nudging her gently.  She doesn’t respond, which isn’t ideal.  Damn, what was her name?  “Aline?”

He must have gotten it right, because at that she makes a sleepy, muffled noise against his chest.  It’s not even a proper response, but at this point Laslow will accept any lucidity at all a good sign.

“Hey!” he says, perking up at the sign of consciousness.  He pokes her on the cheek gently.  Despite the freezing air around them, her skin is still uncomfortably warm.  “Aline, my dear, can you stay awake for me?”

She makes another noise, this one slightly more awakes.  “Okay,” she murmurs, voice bleary.

“Fantastic,” he tells her as he urges his horse back into a gallop.  “You’re doing amazing.”

He’s thankful, briefly, for his horse.  He is not as skilled a rider as Selena, but his steed is incredibly fleet-footed.  A couple of people have looked at him like he was crazy for picking the horse that he had—Nohrians seem to favor massive warhorses, just like Frederick had—horses that are well-suited for carrying heavy weights and trudging through deep snow. 

But the snow on the ground isn’t so deep that he can’t make it through, and Laslow has always favored speed over strength.  So when he makes it back to Castle Krakenburg in nearly half the average travel time, he thinks that once he gets Aline to treatment and he actual warms up, he’s going to feel awfully vindicated

When he carries her into the infirmary, she’s still breathing, thank Naga, and the healers there sound reasonably confident that they can nurse her back to health. 

“She’s pretty bad off,” one of the healers says.  “We can help, but if you hadn’t brought her here…” she trails off, her conclusion unsaid but easily understood.

Laslow shudders—half from the thought and half from the cold.  Now that he’s no longer out in the storm, the chill is starting to make itself known again.  The infirmary is warm, a fact which is only serving to make Laslow even more keenly aware of just how cold he actually is.

No one tries to kick Laslow out, so he just finds a seat in a spot that’s out of the way—a cushioned bench along the far wall—and watches Aline rest until a familiar voice breaks him out of his reverie. 

“Laslow?”

Laslow jerks, snapping out of his haze and finally noticing Xander only a couple feet away, watching him with an evaluative stare.  “Ah, my lord.  My apologies, I should have come to report to you right away.”  He starts to rise, ignoring the stiffness in his bones.

Xander lifts a hand dismissively, and Laslow sits back down with a soft sigh of relief.  “It’s alright, Laslow,” he says.  “I heard about what you did.  That was very noble of you.  For once, you’ve actually conducted yourself in a manner befitting for a royal retainer.

The thoughts in Laslow’s head are moving slow and sluggish, and it isn’t until he sees that one corner of Xander’s mouth is quirked up that he processes that Xander is making a joke.

Xander’s mouth flattens again when Laslow doesn’t respond, face twitching in a way that could almost be taken for embarrassment.

“Truly, Laslow.  You did well.”

Laslow shrugs, the initial adrenaline rush of seeing Xander again fading away to make room for a deep fatigue.  It settles over him like a blanket and makes it hard to care too much about formality.

“I only did what any other decent person would have done.”

Xander exhales slightly, blowing the air out of his nose in a skeptical-sounding huff.   “Fewer people than you think, I’m sure.”

Laslow doesn’t know what that means, and it’s then that Xander hesitates, tilting his head curiously as he looks Laslow up and down.

“You’re pale as a ghost,” he says, reaching out to put a hand on Laslow’s shoulder and then recoiling the second he makes contact.  “Laslow, you’re freezing!”  He opens his mouth like he’s about to call for a healer, and Laslow feels a sense of urgency erupt in his chest.  He leans forward and catches Xander’s arm.  Xander goes still, glancing down at Laslow, and Laslow flushes, releasing his hold on Xander’s wrist.  In Ylisse there hadn’t been much in the way of rules, but in Nohr, that is no way to touch a royal. 

“I’m fine,” he manages.  “Just tired.  I gave her my jacket.”

An expression that Laslow doesn’t understand crosses Xander’s face.  Surprise and concern and anger in equal measure.  “You rode all the way back here dressed like _this_?”

“Yeah?” The ‘ _so?’_ goes unsaid.

“It’s the middle of a snowstorm!”

“I know,” Laslow says. 

“That shirt is not particularly thick, Laslow.”

Laslow snorts despite himself.  “I’m not _dying,_ my lord.  I’m just cold.”

“You could have frostbite.”

Laslow examines a hand, curling and uncurling his fingers to test the motion

“I don’t think I do,” he concludes after a moment.  “It’s fine.  It doesn’t bug me much.  I was cold a lot, growing up.”

Laslow doesn’t realize his mistake until he notices no response forthcoming from Xander.  He looks over at the man to see that he has been shocked still.

When Laslow meets his gaze, Xander coughs politely.  “I see,” he says at last.  “Excuse me.”  And then he walks away.

Laslow winces.  He can’t be sure the precise conclusion that Xander had drawn from his words, but he’s probably assuming that Laslow was raised on the streets.  Poor, if not an orphan.  For all that it’s the _incorrect_ conclusion, it’s not wholly disanalagous from Laslow’s actual childhood, and it’s not like he can rationally expect Xander to _guess_ that Laslow is one of only a few survivors from a ruined future, where supplies were scarce and he’d learned how to make do without.

He sits there for an indeterminable amount of time, too numb and too tired to feel uncomfortable.  He isn’t jerked out of it until something heavy and warm drapes over his shoulders.  Laslow straightens, taking in the large blanket that’s someone’s just dropped on top of him.

“Don’t look so surprised,” says Xander, forcing a mug of something warm and steaming into Laslow’s hands before Laslow can demur.

“But shouldn’t you—” _be doing war things_?

“It would reflect poorly upon me if I just sat by and watched my retainer die of hypothermia, and since you seem adamant that I don’t summon a healer...” he clears his throat and sits down on the bench, next to Laslow. 

He’s a respectful distance away, close enough for conversation but not so close as to be intimate.  But still so, so close—certainly close enough to touch.  It’s a tantalizing thought, but before Laslow can follow it any further he notices the circles under Xander’s eyes, the exhausted slump to his shoulders.  Laslow’s heart clenches guiltily.  Xander shouldn’t be here trying to watch out for Laslow when he should be taking care of _himself_.

“I won’t pry,” Xander offers, interrupting Laslow’s thoughts.

“I don’t know what you…”

“About what you said,” he clarifies.  “I won’t deny that I’m curious, but if you’re uncomfortable talking about it, I see no reason to push.  But at the very least I just want to say, Laslow—know that there’s no need for you to worry about the necessities while you serve the royal family.  Proper clothing, _healing_.  We would not deny those things to you, and we would certainly not ask you,” he eyes Laslow in a way that almost looks nervous, “to deny them to yourself.”

Laslow smiles, a weak and half-hearted thing, and does not respond.  Given the evidence he’s let slip, it’s no wonder Xander thinks of this as—what? Self-flagellation?  The real answer is, of course, much more simple, but Laslow can’t explain that these are nothing more than habits born from necessity without giving away far more than he wants.  He brings the mug to his lips, and then starts in surprise.  “It’s chocolate,” he says, and knows that he should probably follow it with something normal like ‘ _thank you’_.  Instead, he says: “You pay attention,” which is—admittedly, extremely weird, though Laslow doesn’t process it until the words are already out of his mouth.

Luckily, if Xander thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t let on.  “It’s hard not to,” he says.  “Your sweet tooth isn’t particularly subtle.”

Laslow laughs, suddenly feeling warmer than he has in hours.  Maybe even in days.

“She’ll be okay?” Xander inquires, and the sudden change in conversation almost throws Laslow for a loop.  But then Laslow realizes that Aline is even younger than Elise is, and though she is dark skinned and black haired, there’s something about the gentleness of their features that makes them look exactly alike.  No wonder Xander is curious.

“That’s what they tell me,” Laslow says reassuringly.

Xander smiles.  “I’m glad.”

Nohr during the winter is a truly inhospitable place, but it’s better than the ruined future from which Laslow came.  Most things are, of course.  It’s an extremely low metric by which to measure his life.

Still though, Laslow knows happiness when he feels it, and much to his surprise—this is pretty damn close.

 

Something changes after that night.  Xander’s devotion to his father, his obsession with the rules, stops rubbing Laslow the wrong way. In fact, he stops noticing it entirely.  Instead, he sees the things that he maybe should have before: not just the actions, but the reasons for them.

Laslow looks at Xander, at the dulling sheen of his golden hair, the way that his cheeks aren’t quite as full anymore, at bone-deep exhaustion in his entire body, and his heart aches.  He looks at Xander and doesn’t see a prince whose devotion to his father makes him stand idly by in the face of horrors.  He sees a man who loves his siblings and his people and his father—who loves them all so much that it’s tearing him to pieces, killing him bit by bit—moment by moment.

Laslow _sees_ and is suddenly, painfully aware of what he needs to do.

Of what he’s always needed to do, even if he’d been too afraid before.

Laslow remembers his nightmare now.

The scent of blood and bile hanging in the air like a cloud, so thick as to almost be suffocating.

He remembers being split open to the bone, bleeding and dying and crying.  The sky above is red and orange, wrathful and violent.

On a clear day, a still lake is as good as a mirror, reflecting high mountains and clouds above in almost perfect detail.  Laslow thinks, in that moment, that this might be evidence that the sky is just the same, and that maybe the sky isn’t red so much as it’s reflecting the ocean of blood below.

Laslow has always believed that you get out of this world what you put into it, so maybe it’s fitting that this will be the last thing he sees.  A vengeful sky for a child of war. 

“War makes causalities of us all,” says the echo of his mother’s voice in his hair, the ghost of her touch tangling through his hair.  It’s just a memory, or maybe it’s the wind, or maybe it’s nothing at all.

Laslow does not bleed to death that day, but under his body a pool of blood forms that’s so deep that you could drown it it. 

Laslow does not bleed to death that day, but he loses something—or he realizes that he’d lost something a long time ago—something that he can’t get back. 

Because that’s the crux of war.  It takes and it takes and it takes and gives you nothing but empty space in return—leaves you with nothing but a gap where something important used to be.  It takes the people from your life and the blood from your veins and Laslow is running out of things to lose.

No, that’s not right.

Laslow running out of things that he can survive losing.

He didn’t die that day, but he thinks that he might still be bleeding out.  He hadn’t gotten a reprieve, just an _extension_.  And perhaps Laslow could have been okay with that—could have lived with it.  He is a weapon, forged for war and by it.  He doesn’t want to fight, but he’s done it for so long that he doesn’t know how to stop.  He thinks that he could have continued down this path until it burned him up.

But he isn’t here alone.  This war is going to eat Odin and Selena alive too, even though they’ve never said a word about it.  Laslow can’t stand the thought.

And Xander—Xander is bleeding out too.  Laslow is ashamed that it took him so long to realize it.  Xander is strong in ways that Laslow can’t even comprehend, but this isn’t one of them.  For as good as Xander is at maintaining an image, there’s no way to fake this—not truly. 

Laslow could have continued down this path indefinitely, but this?  This changes things.  Because Laslow knows, with immutable certainty, that if this war continues, Xander will not make it to the end alive.  And Laslow is suddenly struck by the understanding, powerful and life-altering, that he doesn’t want to watch Xander become another empty space.

Which means that something needs to change.  That something needs to _give_ , and it might as well be Laslow.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

Laslow stares at Xander’s face, trying to etch every detail deep into his brain.  Just in case.  Just in case he never sees Xander like _this_ again.

“You know I don’t like your father,” he says, and Xander stiffens in his chair.

“Your personal feelings on my father don’t particularly matter,” Xander says tersely.  “He is the king.”

“I don’t like your father,” Laslow reiterates firmly.  It’s true, and he knows that Xander knows it, even if Laslow has never put it so explicitly before.  “But I want to make sure that you know that I will always serve you to the best of my ability _.  Always_.”

“Laslow, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking—”

Xander’s voice muffles and then cuts off as Laslow takes a step forward, bridging the space between them.  He puts a hand on Xander’s shoulder and stares up at him, trying to gather the courage to do what he needs to do next. 

“What are you doing?” Xander’s voice is confused, slightly flustered by the sudden proximity.

Laslow answers by standing up on his toes and pressing his lips to Xander’s—it’s a moment of boldness that he would normally never risk.  But everything is about to change, and Laslow needs—he _needs_ to make sure that Xander knows.

For a moment, Xander doesn’t kiss back, and Laslow resigns himself to the awkward rejection about to follow.

And then Xander leans forward with just enough strength to knock Laslow off his toes.  The action should break the kiss, but it doesn’t because Xander _follows_.  Xander follows the kiss—he _chases_ it, leaning down to bridge the distance between their lips instead.

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, even though Laslow knows that, realistically, it could have only been a couple seconds.

When they finally break the kiss, Xander steps back, looking absolutely staggered by what just happened.

Laslow sucks in a breath of air.

“Laslow,” Xander says, voice awestruck and regretful in equal measure, and Laslow winces.  He knows what’s coming next.  Xander may have kissed him back, but—he can practically hear it in Xander’s voice— _this can’t happen again_.

“It’s okay, my lord,” Laslow says, already turning to leave.  Laslow may know what’s coming, but he can’t stand to hear Xander say it out loud.  “Goodnight.”  He offers Xander a fraction of a smile, the best that he can muster given the circumstances, and hopes that it’s not half as pained as he feels.

He swings the door closed behind him and tries to still the trembling of his hands.  It doesn’t matter, he tells himself.  This was always going to be the last time.  This was always going to be the last time, because Laslow knows what he needs to do, and it was always going to ruin everything.

 

 

“You can’t be serious,” says Odin, uncharacteristically grave.

Selena seems to echo the sentiment, though she, as always, doesn’t voice it quite so gently.  “You must be fucking crazy,” she says.  Her agitation is clear as she paces from wall to wall, hands on her hips.

Laslow winces.  “This will never end,” he says.  “We’re the only ones that know the truth.  There’s no one who can end this but _us_.”

“How?” says Selena sharply.

“If we can find Corrin—”

“Corrin defected to _Hoshido_!”

Laslow meets her gaze evenly.  “I know.”

Selena gapes at him.  “You’re suggesting that we defect too?”

Laslow shakes his head.  “I’m suggesting that we find Corrin and get them to _help_ us.  This war is—it’s pointless.  Hoshido isn’t Nohr’s true enemy, and Nohr isn’t theirs.”

“That’s still defecting,” Selena points out, entirely reasonably.

Odin hums thoughtfully.  “But we can’t even _speak_ of—” he gestures vaguely.  “You know.”

“We wouldn’t need to tell them,” Selena says before Laslow can so much as open his mouth, much to his surprise.  “We’d just need to convince them to trust us long enough for us to _show_ them.”

Laslow blinks at her, surprised.  “Exactly,” he says.

“The question is,” Selena says, voice hardening again, “what we do if they refuse.”

 “Then we do it ourselves,” Laslow says, far more confident than he actually feels.

“How?” says Odin.

Laslow winces reflexively.  “The exalted bloodline has killed dragons before.”

Odin stops and stares at Laslow in shock.  “Laslow, my friend, I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“We have to _try_ ,” Laslow says, voice cracking.  “What’s our alternative?”

That stops both Odin and Selena short.

“You guys can see where this is going just like I can,” Laslow continues. “I don’t know if we can stop it, but we need to—we need to _try_.”  When no response comes he falters.  “You don’t have to come.  I understand if you want to stay—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Selena says sharply, punching Laslow in the shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. 

He rubs at it.  “Ouch, Selena!”

“You deserve it for thinking that we’d ever let you do something so dangerous by yourself,” Selena says.

“Hmph,” says Odin, bringing a hand up to his face dramatically.  “I would never allow a friend to walk such a perilous path alone.  Such conduct would be unbefitting for the great Odin Dark!”

“Besides,” Selena says, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder.  “As much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point.  Camilla has been…upset lately.”

Odin averts his eyes.  “Lord Leo too.  He radiates an aura of great sadness and anger.  As his loyal friend—”

Selena snorts.  “ _Boy_ friend,” she mutters to herself.

Odin pointedly ignores her, speaking as if she hadn’t interrupted at all— “and retainer, it is my sworn duty fend off the darkness that encroaches on his soul.”

“They’ll think you’re traitors,” Laslow warns.

“I figured,” says Selena.  “But just because we don’t want to do it doesn’t mean it stops needing to be done.”

“The most important of tasks often involve the greatest personal sacrifice,” Odin says wisely, but there’s a waver to his voice that no amount of bravado can hide.

“We’ve been running from our responsibilities long enough, anyways,” Selena says, staring at the ground as she scuffs at it with her boot.  “We owe—” she coughs, “we owe _him_ this much at least.”

There’s nothing else for the three of them to say after that—the weight of the plan that they’ve just agreed upon settling heavily over them like a blanket, the promise that everything is about to change hanging over their heads.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like a blade swinging down—doesn’t feel like an ill omen, like they’re hurtling towards an inevitable bad ending.  It feels like a chance to make things right, even if it is in the face of near impossible odds.

They’re going down a dark path, but Anankos brought them here for a _reason_.  They’ve changed the future once, they can do it again.

They have to. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly just my wish fulfillment fic where the trio actually get to get involved with the main plot like anankos meant. birthright? lmfao, the trio are gonna turn this into revelations if it kills them.
> 
> may or may not be the start of the series? i do have ideas for future fics (which would feature odin and selena more heavily. as well as odin/leo/niles and camilla/selena/beruka cause i also love those ships too)


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